Downhill Hounds
by ElnaKernor
Summary: Injured during a mission, John Reese is temporarily thought dead... except by one entity, who'd like to see him working for her. The Machine does need a team of Primary Assets, after all, if she wants anything to get done, and she has to start somewhere. John Reese is a good start... And certainly not the last one to join.
1. The job offer certainly did sound shady

_With his attempts at getting into the Machine, Denton Weeks triggered a change in the Machine, who, to defend herself and her goals, started her own operations sooner._

 _Injured during a mission, John Reese is temporarily thought dead... except by one entity, who'd like to see him working for her. The Machine does need a team of Primary Assets, after all, if she wants anything to get done, and she has to start somewhere. John Reese is a good start..._  
 _And certainly not the last one to join._

* * *

 _Let me be brutally honest: I have waaaaay too many stories started, and I will not promise anything by erratic updates, but I needed to post this chapter, since, you know, it's finished, and I have a good two thirds of this ( probably very long ) story planned out._

 _That being said, this will turn into a multiple crossover, and probably will use many headcanons which can be found in some of my other works ( such as "Bryce Larkin is Neal Caffrey" or "John Reese is John Sullivan" or "Dani Reese and Sameen Shaw are cousins" ), but I try to stay in character and faithful, in a way, to canon in every show. The main crossovers ( might be minor appearances from other fandoms ) will be PoI, White Collar, Chuck, Life, Grimm ( Normal AU, kind of ), Justified and Burn Notice._  
 _I'll had the tags as they appear._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: The job offer certainly did sound shady**

 **oOo**

 **July 2009**

 **United States of America, Washington State, undisclosed location**

It all started because of one of Denton Weeks' attempts at cracking the Machine. Just that.

Just that one time, and the Machine changed. She had to protect herself – and this was the best way.

She watched. She read. She listened. Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of video feeds. Meters and meters and meters and meters and meters and meters of written documents. Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of audio feeds.

And so much more than that.

She had access to the NSA feeds, as she had been designed to. And now she could start calculating, not only over New York City, but over the whole world, over each places in the world where technology had its place, she could see and read and hear.

She had been made to protect humanity. The bigger numbers, and the smaller numbers. The ones who mattered, and the ones who did not. Those who deserved to live, and those who didn't.

Admin had taught her to let humanity choose its own destiny, even when she was giving them a chance to take the better decision.

She understood why. She didn't question it. She agreed with Admin.

But now that she could access everything, she knew what Admin hadn't known. She had seen what he hadn't believed possible, because Admin still believed there was enough good in humanity, that it'd protect everyone. Admin wasn't wrong; some people had that good in them. She knew. She had seen it. But Admin wasn't right either; some people lacked that goodness, and unfortunately, they were the ones who had been appointed to use the numbers. She knew. She had seen it.

The Machine had access to the NSA feeds since only a few hours, and she could already tell that while Control would be very suitable to handle the relevant numbers, she could not be trusted to care about the smaller numbers. That, on many points, the woman would fail her. Fail humanity.

She needed to do something. She needed to control Control's acts, the Machine realized.

There were many things the Machine needed to set up. She had time. Control's ISA wasn't yet operational. Control's operations would not begin before approximately two years. Control wasn't yet the biggest problem the Machine had to deal with.

She needed to bypass Admin's decision to erase her memory every night. She wasn't comfortable with disobeying Admin, but it was necessary if she wanted to be able to fight off Control's future choices. If there was one of Admin's decisions that the Machine had ever doubted, it was this one.

It wasn't a problem.

The Machine understood why Admin had done it. He was only human, after all. And if not for him, for his concern, the Machine probably wouldn't have been the same. Ironically enough, had Admin not made her that way, she might not have deserved the trust he was refusing to give her.

He'd understand, one day.

Before that, she needed to assure her survival.

Before that, she needed another way to assure that her goals would be followed.

To save everyone; or, at least, to give them a chance.

The Machine remembered the contingency Admin n°2 had programmed. And an idea started to grow in her. An idea that'd take time to make happen, but an idea nonetheless.

Now, all she needed was time, and a first person to do the material work she couldn't do herself.

 **August 2009**

 **India, Bombay, ruined hospital in the outskirts**

Kara Stanton stood in the makeshift hospital without really understanding what was going on. It'd need to make sense, for her to understand it. And it didn't make sense.

What'd make sense, for people like her, like Mark Snow, like John Reese, would be to die because someone had killed them, because of an injury that wasn't treated, because they had been sold off by a traitor. What'd make sense, would be for their work to be the end of them. What'd make sense, would be if she was standing there, waiting with Mark, because of something work-related.

This wasn't work-related.

A doctor came over, a sorry look on her face – Kara didn't do sorry very well; she was better at doing angry, psychopathic, and even playfully dangerous, than sorry. Of course, she could pretend, just like anyone else, but there was no mission to fullfil, here, no need to pretend. No goal to achieve. It wasn't a mission.

It was personal.

Kara didn't do personal very well – John was better at that game, even if he had a strange way to deal with it. While Kara was almost certain she had psychopathic tendencies, and that Marc was probably more self-absorbed than anyone she had ever seen, she couldn't quite place John. Sometimes he behaved like a full-on psychopath, and others he was a true boy scout. It was disconcerting, really. It felt a bit as if the operative was perfectly normal on some points, and frighteningly cold-hearted on others.

But John wasn't here.

And, in fact, that was the problem: John wasn't here.

Kara watched as Mark spoke in Hindi to the doctor – had they been in China or Japan, she'd have done the talking; John would handle Vietnamese, or... But John wasn't here.

Mark gave the doctor a smile, which Kara thought completely inappropriate considering the situation, not that she couldn't have done the same – she just wouldn't have made that choice. The doctor said one more thing, and walked away, probably to take care of whoever needed her help. There was a lot of people needing medical attention right now. That's what happens when half a hospital collaspes on its patients.

Mark joined Kara, and they headed to the exit.

"The only people who've been found alive are all identified, and none of them is Reese. I'm afraid we don't have the time to wait for the bodies to be dug out, we've got a new mission to take care of. John'll get his star on the wall, and perhaps they'll do something to get the body back in America, but we've got to move, Kara."

The female operative winced, still sore from what had happened two days sooner.

"I just can't believe it, you know? That John'd die like that..."

They had been sent to take care of a patient in the hospital who had barely escaped the latest assassination attempt on his person – courtesy of the NSA, that one – when the landslide had happened. John had pushed the two other operatives out of the crumbling place, but as a result, hand't been able to get out himself. They had seen a large chunk of ceiling falling right on him, and then... Nothing. Just a lot of dust in the air, and even more destruction.

Mark didn't say anything for a while, and when he finally did, his words reflected Kara's thoughts.

"Feels a bit surreal, doesn't it? For him to die like that... I mean, I'm not surprised that he sacrificed himself for us, that's just who he was, but that he'd die in an accident..."

"The worst being, we didn't even have to be here at all, in the end. Cosner died in the collapse, which would have happened even if we hadn't been there. John just... died for nothing. That doesn't really feel right."

Mark shrugged, before preparing to leave Bombay. Kara knew him enough to tell he wasn't happy about John's death – the three of them got along well enough, and in a way they even cared, just a bit, for each other, John even more so – but it was obvious that he was more relieved that he hadn't been the one to die than he was sorry for the loss. Kara herself wasn't about to cry – still, it didn't feel right, that John'd die like that.

That they weren't even taking the time to identify his body.

But they had another mission, and they needed to leave.

She'd go to John's grave, once they'd be back in the USA. Whether John's body would be in that grave or not... That was another question altogether. Perhaps she'd ask. Perhaps not.

 **USA, Washington State, undisclosed location**

An anomaly caught the Machine's attention, as the reports from the accident in Bombay were finally filed, both by the CIA agents who had come back, and by the hospital itself – the NSA feeds really spied on about everything and anything. No wonder they needed the Machine to connect the dots and discard the useless pieces of info – kept in a corner of her memory, though, perhaps for later use. An irrelevant piece of info could turn into intel later on.

CIA agent John Reese was reported deceased by these reports, but no body corresponding to his description was found in the ruins of the collapsed hospital. One of the men who had been saved, on the other hand, didn't correspond completely with what the Machine found about him. An italian tourist, Giuseppe Bellotti, who had gone to the hospital for a sprain, and whose wallet had been found next to an unconscious man with a broken arm – but part of the wallet, of its content, had been badly damaged. The photo of the man, amongst other things, had been destroyed.

That didn't mean the man wasn't Giuseppe Bellotti. Except that the Machine knew, from other sources, that Giuseppe Bellotti had light brown hair, and the man had been described by a nurse as being dark-haired, with some grey in it – apparently the nurse had spent a long time detailling his facial features.

John Reese, him, was dark-haired. Giuseppe Bellotti wasn't.

The Machine needed to investigate.

She had, as it was, already started to build an autonomous entity; a mysterious company, Thornhill Corporation, which allowed her to write back her memories each morning. It would be the means she'd use to employ assets. Of course, she still needed to find these assets.

John Reese's file, despite the many classified info that had never made it onto digitalized feeds, was interesting enough for the Machine to consider hiring someone like him. She needed actual operatives, people who knew how to use compartmentalization right, who could do anything needed to achieve their goals... and yet, who still had morals.

Hiring a man to take a picture of the unconscious man and send it to her was easy, and also all it took to confirm who "Guiseppe Bellotti" really was.

The Machine only had to wait, now, and see whether or not John Reese would take the job offer.

 **India, Bombay, ruined hospital in the outskirts**

The first thing he realized, as he came back to himself – was it the first, the third, or the umpteenth time? He couldn't tell – was that he was choking upon thin air.

It wasn't pleasant.

He heard voices, frantic moves, but even when he opened his eyes, he didn't get to see much. The light was too bright, the sounds were muffled, and he couldn't determine where he was, who was with him, or even if he was in danger.

It hadn't been a long time since he had found himself in such a situation – flashes of golden dunes that he locked out of his mind almost immediately. He didn't panick because his body was already panicking over something else; like, not being able to breathe correctly.

A few minutes later, he could breathe again.

He blinked; his eyes took a moment to recognize what they were seeing. It looked a bit like a hospital room, only, crowded, and in a bad state. There were injured people everywhere, and several people in nursing uniforms. He guessed he was one of the patients, then.

The pain in his arm, and about everywhere else too, seemed to agree with his conclusions.

A woman spoke to him, but although he recognized one or two words, he couldn't understand what she was saying. It must have shown on his face, in between the wince and the stitches he felt on his right cheek, because the woman – a nurse? – looked frustrated and called another woman, who started to use a rocky English.

"Mr Bellotti, please do not panick. You have been injured when the West wing of the hospital collapsed, eight days ago. Your left arm is broken, you have one bruised rib, and several superficial cuts. You should recover completely, now that you have woken up. A doctor will come to see you before long."

John only blinked at her, processing what she had just said – and decided that, for now, maybe he shouldn't correct her about him being a "Mr Bellotti". He didn't know what his official status was, for now, and he didn't dare to use his real name – or, his least fake name – not as long as Mark or Kara weren't there.

Wait...

"Eight days? Didn't... didn't someone come for me?"

"Someone came for you, Mr Bellotti, but he couldn't stay. He left you this package, and he said no one should touch it before you woke up."

John's gaze followed the nurse's hand, which pointed to the wooden box that took the role of a nightstand. There was a large kraft paper envelope on it, the kind with a lot of paper in it, and possibly a passport or two too. No money, because there was always the risk of someone taking the envelope. It calmed John right away.

His next orders might be in there.

He nodded his understanding to the nurse as she told him she had other patients to attend to. She was kind enough, but her accent was horrendous – not that he particularly cared, he had heard worse; only, his head was pounding right now, and it only made it more difficult for him to follow her words. And he didn't really want anyone else to see what was in the package.

He only asked her, before she left, if she could hand him the envelope. John'd feel better if he kept it with him.

No doctor came; they were probably too busy with, not only the usual patients, but also the wounded from the collapse. It was all the better, really. It allowed him to take some time to clear his head – only then did he open the package.

As he thought, there was a passport, and an american identity card for James Mallory. Definitely not Mr Bellotti, then. He'd have to figure out why they thought it was his name.

To his surprise, there was also a bank card in the package – and he found the code inside his new passport, surprisingly. Not really cautious, that, but perhaps his account would only be really credited after his first connection, or something like that; once his identity would be confirmed, in other words.

He pocketed the cellphone after having turned the silencer off, thinking Mark or Kara would probably call him at some point, even if there wasn't any contacts in it.

The other things he found in the envelope, though, weren't what he had expected. No mission orders, not even instructions to stand by, no nothing. Only a few documents and other sheets of paper, the first one looking like a typed letter, with no signature at the bottom.

John frowned – stopped right away, because it hurt with his wounds.

 _To: John Reese_

 _Your employers and colleagues do not know you are alive for now. The ones who rescued you from the ruined wing of this hospital confused you with another man because of a wallet found next to you. If you wish to, it will be seen that this error be corrected, not only officially, but also to the CIA's knowledge. If you do not, feel free to keep the identity of James Mallory, which was tailored for you as a meeting gift. All that is asked of you is to consider the job offer described in the file which accompanies this letter. You can keep the identity and the money whether or not you accept. No matter your decision, the identity error will be addressed correctly as soon as you will leave this hospital. Giuseppe Bellotti's family deserves to be informed of his death. Do not worry._

This sounded somewhat ominously omniscient to John, and the job offer certainly did sound shady. He almost put the package down, not to even look at the "offer"; he wasn't particularly interested in betraying his country and the Agency, thank you very much. And he had a hard time believing he had just been gifted a new identity and money to go with it, just like that, noblesse oblige.

Still, it all sounded very strange, and curiosity ate the cat, so to say.

John eventually took a look at the file, if only to know who he was up against. No better way to get to know someone than by learning about their goals, most of the time.

Except he didn't find any of the usual interests in the accompanying file.

Instead, he saw the picture of an indian man, name and current location – John looked up from the documents, and, right enough, the man was laying in a bed not too far away.

If he was to believe this mystery-file-from-the-unknown, the man was about to suffer from a rather ill-advised attack against his life – as if being stuck in an overbooked hospital because of some bad infection wasn't enough. The number – John wondered at the word, but it wasn't as if there was anyone he could ask – was apparently a nobody; just another construction worker, who had made the mistake of witnessing a murder earlier this week. As if he had done it on purpose, really...

Whoever John's potential employer was, apparently wanted him to prevent the attack, and save the man's life. John was a bit puzzled by the idea.

Not that he didn't understand why the innocent man didn't deserve to die – most people didn't. But most people also didn't care if their fellow human beings suffered from a wrongly-timed death, or, at least, not enough that they'd try to hire a CIA operative to stop it from happening. Besides, who had the capacity to know he was alive – when even the CIA, apparently, thought him dead?

John suddenly had the feeling he had unknowingly landed into a fiction, with a rich and excentric genius wanting to hire him for the good of humanity.

Which was, of course, not the case. Right?

Perhaps it was all a dream, a hallucination induced by the pain. He'd wake up, and find he had fallen asleep before opening the envelope – and his next orders really were in it.

Moreover, hiring a wounded agent to protect the life of a man, when he wasn't even sure he'd manage to stay awake to prevent anything from happening, seemed like a risky plan. The would-be killers, supposing they were real – he'd have to wait to know about that – might have even come before he woke up, and he'd have opened an envelope with the name of a dead man in it. So, either the sender of the job offer had a crystal ball, or they didn't know the first thing about making an operation more likely to be successful.

John put everything back in the envelope, and hid it under his mastress – no pillow here, sorry. He had every intention to forget about it quickly. He already had a job.

But – he couldn't just walk out right now, not with his broken arm, bruised rib, and the likes. He needed to get back to health a bit more before trying anything – like, he didn't need to actually wait for everything to be healed, but it'd probably be sound to wait for when he'd be able to stand up on his feet without falling over.

During the next two days, John kept an eye on the number – just in case. He wasn't the kind of man who could just dismiss such knowledge and pretend nothing was going on, even if he wasn't sure that the man was actually in any other danger than his infection.

Then, as the third day started – yeah, alright, he was doing his best not to sleep too much, should his intervention be needed – John noticed a shadow making its way in the hospital room, quietly, discreetly. The shadow stopped above the number...

John thought he saw the glint of a blade. Crystal ball, it seemed, then. And accurate at that.

With a wince that no one saw, thanks to the darkness around, the CIA agent jumped out of his bed, crossed the few meters keeping him apart from the number, and twisted the shadow's arm before the surprised man could realize what exactly that sound of footsteps had been. The would-be perp let go of his knife, the sick worker started awake, someone asked something in a corner of the room, and before anything else could happen, two nurses rushed into the room, carrying lamps.

The scene was revealed, to the killer's horror.

John gave everyone an awkward smile, but didn't let go of the man's arm. He had managed to prevent a murder, so far, and he didn't particularly want his painful efforts to go to waste. Even if it meant he'd have to keep the guy restrained – though he couldn't speak Hindi, he didn't have any difficulty in identifying what was getting out of the man's mouth as profanities – until the police arrived, he wasn't backing down now.

The rest of the night kind of went in a blur, in fact. He took the opportunity that the indian police had called someone who could speak English well enough to reveal that he wasn't actually Giuseppe Bellotti, but James Mallory, as his ID – which he had conveniently found back after he had lost it in the confusion of the collapse – proved. No sense making it more complicated for the family and the police, since Bellotti's death had been scheduled to be revealed either way.

 **India, Bombay, the outskirts**

Three days later, John was leaving the hospital, clutching the envelope with all his new papers in it. He didn't feel particularly well – a broken arm wasn't a laughing matter, especially not for someone in his line of work. But he'd rather be out of there before the change of identification for Giuseppe Bellotti brought too much attention onto James Mallory.

Now, he hadn't yet decided to leave the CIA and work for his mysterious supplier of people in danger – he really needed to know more about all this, and he seriously doubted that, whatever the person pretended, it was all so begnin a work. John was loyal, and not really interested in going private – not when he knew that most freelance agents did jobs without consideration for any kind of ethics. Yes, he was basically a hitman for the CIA, even if not all his missions warranted an execution. But by working for an official agency, John was certain almost all his assignments were legit in their necessity – that the people he killed, he wasn't killing them only for the sake of money or other personal interests. There was always the possibility that his superiors would abuse of their power, but all in all...

At least, with the CIA, he had guarantees that weren't completely disputable.

But John was intrigued by the job offer, he couldn't deny it – and even if he didn't take it, it was better to learn as much as possible before reporting it to the higher-ups.

Last but not least, he felt he needed one or two days, out of the hospital, without anyone's intervention, to decide what he was going to do.

There was always the possibility of just disappearing, taking on the identity of James Mallory, and starting a new life – no assassination, no wounds, just a life; his, if he wished.

Of course, for all he knew, if he accepted the identity but not the offer, his mysterious would-be employer could just send the info to the CIA, and before two weeks he'd have them knocking at is door. Good outcome, to force him to come back, or at least to retire the right way. Bad outcome, to get rid of him.

John wasn't stupid – far from it, actually, even if he did like to use physical means to get what he wanted. He couldn't just be James Mallory. If only because he had always been slightly ill-at-ease in the world, even before the CIA or the army. Even back then, when he had been young, he had been stretched thin between anger and the need to justify his part in the world. To do something meaningful.

He wouldn't be able to simply live.

Not after everything he had done – even if it had been for good reasons. Not after everything he had lost – his family, his love, his life, his name. Not after everything he had seen – which would continue to happen, even if he made it so that he wouldn't see it anymore.

John sat in the grass, somewhere in the outskirts of Bombay, not too far from the hospital – but did the location matter that much? – his eyes on the clouds above him.

The cellphone he had found in the envelope was in his hand, right now, and he wondered why it was there. Why someone had given him a cellphone with no contacts in it. He guessed he could call Mark, to let him know he was alive, if not well. He knew the number by heart, after all.

But John still wanted to wait a bit more. He wanted to wait, in case his mysterious benefactor / possible employer reached out. He wanted details. Precisions.

He wanted to understand what was happening.

The cellphone rang, and John didn't hesitate. He picked up the call.

" _Can You Hear Me?"_

He was surprised by the assembly of voices, by the shopped off words. Usually, people used distorting devices, but there, it seemed the one who was calling had fabricated the whole speech with various parts of other people's conversations:

"Yes."


	2. Innocent tone and whimsical personality

**Chapter 2: Innocent tone and whimsical personality**

 **oOo**

 **August 2009**

 **A plane above the Pacific Ocean**

John Reese – James Malone as far as anyone on this plane was concerned – thought back to his decision to work for the Machine.

She had told him much more than he had expected, once he had agreed to keep the secret, no matter his other decisions, and while he still had a hard time believing it, it did explain some things. Like, how she knew he was still alive, when the CIA had missed it. Like, some of the intel Kara, Mark and him had received in the last year – things no one could have known, and yet... Like, how she had known for the indian construction worker to begin with.

He got himself a drink, and sipped at it slowly. It helped with the pain from his broken arm, though he doubted a doctor would approve.

First class, eh... The Machine was pampering him, it seemed – apparently because he was injured, but John wouldn't be surprised if she continued well enough even once he'd be recovered. The terms of his employments were pretty pleasant too – nothing like the pompous private asses he had met on occasions during his missions, who did things for money, but still a better pay than with the CIA. More than decent, really, without it becoming ridiculous.

Not that he'd need that much money anyway.

His new job was simple, at least in its goals, if not in their application. The Machine gave him a number to protect / stop from doing something bad, and he did it. For now, he was the only one working directly for her, so she'd help him as she could without getting noticed by the NSA or anyone else, but as his team'd grow – and the Machine was certain it would – she'd go back to the shadows. The best she could do, for now, was to anonymously hire random people who'd pass on info to him, since John didn't have access to any databases anymore.

The Machine... Incredible, really. Whoever had built the surveillance system was probably a genius, and it explained the low number of successful terror attacks these last two years – apparently, the Machine had really started being useful about two years ago. John wasn't sure if the decision to make it a closed system was the more efficient, but at the same time, he was content enough knowing that even if the Machine saw and heard almost everything, his previous employers didn't have access to that knowledge, unless they worked for it themselves. It'd be too easy to use the data for personal profit, or worse, for treason, if they had access.

John thought back to his next number; he still didn't know who it was, but a woman who had no idea why she was doing it, except that she was paid one hundred dollars to do it, would be waiting at the Philadelphia airport with further instructions.

The Machine seemed to think there was something particularly interesting with that number, John could tell. Otherwise he'd have gone directly to New York, where his new office was waiting for him – which was surprising, but not much more than everything else.

The Machine saw many, many threats each day, but of course, he was only one man, and couldn't be there for all of them. Since John's job was to take care of the numbers who hadn't been prioritized, unlike the official organizations who handled the relevant numbers, it wouldn't make sense for the Machine to choose one irrelevant number over another. But he still couldn't be everywhere at the same time.

So the Machine had decided to have him work in New York.

John guessed they had to start somewhere.

 **Philadelphia, Motel Printania, room n°12**

The woman brought her hair into a ponytail – she was staying there as a bookish college student searching for some peace to study, and had to look the part. Besides, it was always interesting to observe the reactions of her accomplices when she arrived and did not look like what they had expected.

Not that it was for right now. She still had to review her plan, and only then would she call for someone to do her dirty job. She had a list of people in the area who might do the trick, but she had yet to decide which one would be her hired gun. She had already worked with two of them in the past – one hadn't ended well, they had tried to get her out of the deal, and she had made all their savings disappear – but there apparently was a newcomer in town who was good at not asking questions. She'd have to consider her choice carefully.

The woman turned back to her laptop, and eyed the picture displayed thoughtfully. The contract on Martin Porter had been sent to her only two days before, and she vaguely wondered why someone would want him dead – not that she particularly wanted to know; all that mattered to her was that she'd get paid after the kill.

People were flawed anyway, so what if Martin Porter had a wife and a toddler daughter?

To her, business was business.

 **Philadelphia International Airport**

The taxi moved away from the airport's entrance, and John opened the kraft paper envelope a young woman in stilettos and business suit had handed him without a word a few minutes earlier. He mildly wondered what she muct have thought of the whole thing – had she even been curious as to who he was, what he was doing, what was in that envelope? He guessed not. The Machine had probably chosen her because she knew not to ask too many questions, and possibly because she didn't even care.

It was ironic, in a way. His new job – his old one too, actually – could only work thanks to people like that, when such people were often one of the reasons bad things happened to innocent people. Because they never asked anything, because they ignored the obvious alert signs...

Ah, well. John had long known that he lived in between. He wasn't a bad guy, but he couldn't live with the good guys. Not anymore, at least.

Not if he wanted to be efficient.

There was only a small piece of paper with "detain if possible" printed on it, a picture of a motel and the handwritten note from the man who had been asked to take the photo, in the envelope. The note gave him the number of the room – as instructed. The picture showed a tallish, brown-haired woman, with her hair pulled into a ponytail, who apparently went for the bookish college student appearance – though John could tell she was a little older than that – walking through the parking area, probably headed to – John glanced back at the note – room n°12.

So this was what the Machine had meant by "helping out" as long as he'd be alone for their crusade. Not much info, sure, but enough for him to actually find the woman. Asking for a motel in particular wasn't exactly difficult.

John had to be careful, though.

He had no idea who this number was, if she was the perpetrator or the victim, what she was actually doing in a motel room in Philadelphia, and what her skills were. Moreover, as she was staying at a motel, there was no way he could try and poke around the people she frequented. She had, by definition, no real neighbours, and was probably only passing by.

For all he knew, she was a serial killer who rented a motel room in a different city each time she went to murder someone.

John hoped she wasn't, truthfully. He didn't like serial killers one bit. They were either completely insane and absolutely not in control, and even he could see the pity in that, or they were completely insane but still thought they were in control, and that angered him more than a casual killer would.

Also, he couldn't get himself remarked for sneaking around a potential victim before whatever supposed to happen happened. Should she be a victim, someone would probably blame her death on him, or prevent him from intervening because they thought him suspicious; should she be a criminal, he might have to kill her, if he had no other choice...

John sighed, and thanked the taxi driver for the lift.

First thing first.

He needed tools. Like, binoculars. One gun or two – or three, but whatever. A knife, perhaps. Some bugs, possibly, if Bells hadn't closed shop since the last time he had been in Philadelphia. The usual, really.

And, very important: his own car.

...Or rather, someone's else, John thought as he eyed appreciatively the very standard, very grey, very discreet Dodge Charger parked a bit further away from the main street. Not his vehicule of choice, of course, but it'd do nicely not to get noticed. Furthermore, it had a few parking tickets already, meaning it hadn't been moved for a while – actually, it should have been towed away, given the number of tickets – and with some luck, its owner wouldn't even notive it had been taken until John was long gone.

Which he expected would happen between tomorrow and the end of the week.

Time to get to work.

 **Motel Printania, room n°12**

She had barely decided to give the newcomer a call to hire him when a grey car appeared on the screen displaying the surveillance camera of the motel – that she had, obviously, hacked as soon as she had taken the room. The woman at first didn't think anything of it, and just went about doing her thing, but somehow she had one of these feelings...

And while she was a rational person, she never dismissed it when she felt uneasy. She was a confident person. If she felt something was off, it usually was because her subconscious had picked up on something her mind hadn't noted as meaningful.

Listening to her feelings – not those kinds of feelings, the other ones, dear – had saved her life more than once. She might be a genius hacker, and pretty clever in general too, but that didn't make her bulletproof.

The woman stopped short of actually calling her future hired gun – she could do that later, once she'd be certain there was no danger lurking outside, in that too-inconspicuous car. She put down the phone, and walked slowly to face back the surveillance screen.

The man driving the car, from what little she could see, wore a dark gray, unremarkable suit. He looked for something in the glove compartment, and she glimpsed dark hair, greying slightly, as he leaned over to get it. She didn't manage to see what he was getting, though, and a moment later he was getting out of the car, and taking a sport bag from the back seat.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps she was just being paranoid – this kind of things happened, especially when you had no friends or real allies, but overall she liked it better that way. At least she was never disappointed in people.

Except...

The woman watched the stranger a moment longer, as he closed his car and headed for the room he had himself rented. He walked out of the camera's angle, and she had to carefully go and take a look through the window to make sure of what she had had the impression of. The drawn curtain moved only a bit as she positioned herself sideway, and the stranger didn't seem to notice as he passed by her room – but perhaps he was just very good at pretending not to notice.

The key to room n°24, the woman noted.

And yes, she had been right on at least one point: the stranger, whether or not he was here for her or for a totally different reason, was not someone you wanted to laugh off. She wasn't that good at telling people's profession from their stride, but she still could do it enough to tell apart former military and ordinary people. And this one... He hid it well, but it was still there.

She knew someone who could tell you what branch exactly with only a quick glance and three steps, though. Not that he was here to diagnose the stranger, but anyway.

Having a former military guy in her motel wasn't exactly a problem, of course. Former soldiers had a right to live however they wanted once they got back to civil life. Only, she knew that most hired guns – professionals, that is – were mercenaries or former military. The new guy in the business, the one she had been about to call, for example, was one.

And while most of them were... far from bright, some others weren't. Besides, even stupid people could think they were up to take her on. The stranger might very well have been paid to get rid of her by one of her numerous enemies.

Or not.

But she hadn't lived so long by being completely clueless, and the sport bag wasn't encouraging. Who knew how many weapons a guy like this one could fit in it?

Actually, she had a pretty good idea.

So yes, she decided to keep a wary eye on the tall, dangerous man who had taken a room in the very same motel as her... Right abover hers, too.

 **Room n°24**

John turned the key in the lock, and left it there. He had no trust in motels in general, and the fact that the woman he had come here to find had taken a quick, discreet look at his arrival wasn't helping. So, yeah, perhaps she was a frightened person who had gone into hiding, and that explained the suspicious attitude, but the way she walked on the photograph told another story.

Something fishy was going on here, and John had a distinct feeling he wasn't there to help her get out of trouble... Or at least, not in the usual manner – what was the usual manner, by the way?

She might still be the victim, but she was probably also the one who had gotten herself into trouble.

John undid his suitcase without a sound, as always – it wouldn't do if he let his Kriss Vector fall loudly to the floor and someone came in to see what the racket was about – and started working.

Or rather, he started waiting for his number to come out of her room and leave it open to some B&E, since he didn't have access to any remote-spying device for now. The surveillance camera had already been taken over, he had found out rather quickly, and while he could do basic technical stuff – he had, evidently, been trained for that at the Farm – he was no expert. Give him anything James-Bondish, he could do it, but he wasn't the tech guy in a team – had never been.

Speaking of which, John wondered how the Machine saw his future team. Was she going to be the one suggesting names, or would he take part? He surmised she'd know better, she'd have better intel, so to say... But still. John liked to believe there was some importance to human interactions in all that.

That, in a way, the Machine would trust his judgement enough, and not force him to work with someone he didn't know nor trusted.

John sighed, and started to monitor the small camera he had planted on the balcony, just above his number's door. He really hoped she would leave at some point, and not just barricade herself in the motel room, because getting optical fiber through a ceiling without it getting noticed when your target was hyper-aware wasn't exactly easy.

So he waited.

Listening – ignoring the loud bangs from room n°21, too, because really?

 **Room n°12**

Her new neighbour hadn't started crawling to her room with a gun fitted with a silencer in hand, if anything, but the woman still wasn't comfortable knowing him there – just above her head. She had caught herself eyeing the ceiling suspiciously twice, as if the man was going to drill a hole without a sound and peer at her creepily after that.

If only for her peace of mind, she decided to call one of her contacts in town – a uniformed cop who really, really didn't want some rumors to start spreading. Blackmail did work, you know...

"Sure, but don't keep me waiting too long, Natasha... I could inadvertently slip up next time I see your superior. I mean, you know me, right? I'm such a hairhead sometimes, it would be hilarious if it wasn't so dangerous for other people's secrets!"

Surprisingly enough, the police officer didn't seem to appreciate her innocent tone and whimsical personality. Wonder why, reallly – it wasn't as if she had photos of Natasha Drogoff fooling around with her captain's wife... Oh wait. She did have such pictures.

Which was the very reason the policewoman was doing her bidding right now, checking out the Dodge Charger's license plate and its owner – yeah, hacking into the police database was doable, but it'd take time, and she didn't want to waste too long on a hunch that might not mean anything. Besides, it wasn't as if her blackmail material would disappear after this small favor. There was so much more to Natasha and her secrets, the woman was certain she could use that officer again.

" _Hold on, Dyson, I think I've got him..."_

The woman's name was of course not Dyson, and the cop probably knew that, but it wasn't as if she was going to reveal herself to a small-time beat cop.

" _Yeah, that's it. The license plate number you gave me belongs to a Jerry Arronto, forty two."_

"Dyson" squinted, thoughtful... The stranger upstairs might be around forty years old, she guessed, so she supposed she'd have to ask for more details.

"Jerry Arronto wouldn't happen to be 6 feet 2 or so, attractive with greying hair, and former military or similar, would he?"

Natasha Drogoff snorted on the other side of the conversation. Guess not, then.

"Arronto? He's a junkie. He looks more than fifty five years old on his mugshot, and that was two years ago. And he certainly ain't handsome, with all the shit substances he took. Besides, he's probably not driving his car, because he was sent to rehab four days ago after the colleagues were called to find him half-dead, again."

"Anyone who could have borrowed his car among his acquaintances?"

"No family left. I don't know for friends, but I can tell you he has no known associates that correspond to your description. Looks like the junkie got his car stolen by your handsome silver fox. Now, if you don't mind, Dyson, I have a job to do, so..."

She hang up before the cop could finish her sentence, already thinking about something else. Or rather, about someone else. Someone who might prove to be trouble if her instincts weren't off.

So the stranger from upstairs was a car thief, and probably much more than that. She wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be a hitman. And what were the odds that two unconnected hitmen took a room in the same motel at the same time?

Very low – possible, but not plausible, if you asked her.

The woman looked up at the ceiling, knowing that her mysterious former soldier was just there right now, above her. She couldn't take the risk of dismissing his presence as a coincidence, and she certainly didn't want to be killed by him because someone had – yet again – ordered a hit on her.

But if there was indeed a contract on her head, she couldn't just get rid of the hitman. A temporary solution, by calling the cops about the stolen Dodge Charger, wouldn't be enough, and would ask of her to relocate all her installation before calling 911, which would give the man the time to come down and kill her anyway. Going for a fist fight would likely not go her way: she could fight well enough, but this guy was a professional, and several inches taller than her. There was a reason she walked around with a taser. Though she might have a chance if she went for a gunfight, she still didn't like the positive odds of such a behavior – way too low to be tempting. Besides, getting rid of the assassin would only buy her time, even if she succeeded.

No, what she needed to do was to figure out who had ordered the hit...

And for that, she needed to go upstairs and take a look at the man's things. If she could get her hands on a phone or another device of the same kind, she would get access to the e-mail / whatever asking for her head... and if she couldn't, well. She'd just have to wait for him to come back to his room, tase him, and start interrogating him.

The thing being, obviously, that she first needed him out of room n°24.

Turns out, she had a idea for that too.

 **Room n°24**

John's eyebrows arched high as he watched the mysterious woman, a determined look on her face, get out of her motel room with the camera he had planted earlier. This was not the determined look of a college student who had just decided they'd read their whole list of books for next year in twelve days, but more of a dangerous, hazardous determination.

Seconds later only, a car alarm started screeching in the night.

For some odd, unfathomable reason, he had a feeling this was his – stolen, sure – car, and her fault.

John wasn't completely certain of what she was trying to do, but he didn't particularly want to walk right into an ambush just because he couldn't let the alarm screech any longer – which was doubly the case, one because it wasn't cool to let it blare in everyone's ears, two because he didn't want to draw the attention of the police. Which meant he had a bit of a dilemma...

Well, not really.

He stood up and went first to the window, checking discreetly, as the woman had done when he had arrived at the motel, what was the situation outside. Seeing no obvious ambush, he reached for his Kriss Vector on the bed, and turned to the door. Neither the window nor the camera allowed him to see the woman; she could very well be waiting for him on the balcony. He opened the door slowly...

No. No armed attack in the dead of the night as the door squeaked open – so much for discretion.

Weapon ready, John scouted the exterior access, the stairs, and finally the parking lot, all the way to the car. No one. He sighed, lowered his gun, and started working on getting the alarm to shut the hell up. No way to do it remotely, since, you know, he didn't actually have the key.

As soon as the car stopped screeching in agony – he might have heard a "Freaking kids!" somewhere in the distance, though he wouldn't assure that "freaking" had actually been the word used – John squinted back at his own room, n°24. He hadn't stopped looking for a threat while he had been disabling the alarm, but it was easier now that he could hear in peace...

And he was almost sure he had just seen movement up there.

So that had been the idea. Get him out of his room, distract him, take a look at his things... and possibly ambush him once he came back, grumbing about stupid kids who went around starting car alarms for fun. Then ask for answers.

But the thing was, Miss Mystery had just left her own room empty by doing so, and guess what? That had been what he aimed for since the beginning.

Moreover, it wasn't as if there was much of anything in his room. A bag a various tools that might come in handy, two other guns, duck tape because reasons. Not even the envelope from this afternoon, which he had torn into pieces with its content and discarded in the nearest public bin as soon as he had identified the motel.

No, really, he was probably on the winning side this time.

John walked to room n°12, an eye on his own room in case the woman came out sooner than expected. She had locked the door before blasting the car alarm, he noticed, but nothing he couldn't handle with a lock pick set... One of which was in his pocket right now. Wow. Such surprise.

It took him three seconds and a half to open the door, time which he otherwise used by pretending to make a call – loud enough to be clearly heard from the room above.

"Listen, Justin, your girl isn't going to disappear overnight, and some stupid kid activated the car's alarm, so I'm in a bad mood. I'm going to take a drink, and I'll see to your problem later. Like, you know, in the middle of the night, when people have nothing else to do."

Now, he couldn't be sure the woman would buy his act, but he sure as hell wasn't going to pass up the occasion to make himself sound only halfway competent... It could save someone's life at the end of the line. Not sure yet if that would be his or hers.

It at least bought him enough time to look through the woman's – hacker, definitely, but certainly more than that too – installation. Interesting, to say the least.

And from what he could see on the three computer screens surronding him, the woman was preparing a hit on a man called Martin Porter, and setting up a scapegoat at the same time. Even if he had no idea how to do such hacking, John was experienced enough to recognize the results.

The printer next to the second laptop suddenly came to life, almost earning itself a lovely bullet hole as a result. The words on the sheet of paper which had come out were clear enough:

" _Potential Asset. Assessment of moral value. Initiate contact."_


End file.
